


The Hanged Man

by Ardenne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, F/M, Hypnosis, Prison, Roman Catholicism, TW: Homophobia, TW: suicidal thoughts, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardenne/pseuds/Ardenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PREQUEL to The Cure for Anything, but can stand on its own. A few days of Will's life in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hanged Man

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for suicidal ideation and homophobia.

The gallows from which [the Hanged Man] is suspended forms a Tau cross, while the figure—from the position of the legs—forms a fylfot cross. There is a nimbus about the head of the seeming martyr. It should be noted [...] that the face expresses deep entrancement, not suffering [and] that the figure, as a whole, suggests life in suspension, but life and not death. […] He who can understand that the story of his higher nature is imbedded in this symbolism will receive intimations concerning a great awakening that is possible, and will know that after the sacred Mystery of Death there is a glorious Mystery of Resurrection.  
– A.E. Waite, _The Pictorial Key to the Tarot_

“Hands up and against the wall, Graham,” the guard said, snapping Will out of his reverie. It must be time for exercise, because it was after lunch and he'd seen Chilton yesterday. That was how Will had learned to keep track of time: not by a clock or a calendar, but by the routine. 

There was little conception of day and night here, except that things happened during the day – a short shower every morning after breakfast and morning meds, weekly visits with Chilton and Alana, occasional visits from Beverly and Bailey, Will's attorney, and exercise twice a week. At night after dinner and evening meds, which he had been told took place at seven, they lowered the lights and put on the TV that hung in the hallway. Sometime into the interminable nights, the screamer down the hall from him started screaming. He continued until just before the delivery of breakfast and morning meds, which Will had been told happened at seven in the morning. 

Those were the days of his life now. That was how they ticked away. At first, he'd made a conscious effort to try to keep track of them as best he could, but now, he was starting to get more and more lost. Time was too much like sand in the way it was always slipping through his fingers, resisting his grip. 

Alana had noticed his confusion first: she had come twice in a week, and he hadn't realized it. He'd made an offhand comment about something she had said the week before, not realizing it hadn't been a week, but merely four days. She'd asked him, flat out, if he knew what day of the week it was, and he couldn't tell her. Alana said that it was his birthday and she had come to visit him because of that, but he hadn't even known it was his birthday. Since then, Alana had been careful to keep her visits consistent. He knew when it was Wednesday because she would visit in the afternoons, after lunch. If there was any change to her schedule, she told him both by the day of the week and how many days it would be from then. 

Will knew today was Saturday, since he'd seen her three days ago now. 

He stood up from his bed, walked to the wall opposite him – eleven paces, he could do it with his eyes closed and not hit the wall – and put his hands on it, high above his head. He heard the door open, felt the guard pat him down, felt him pull his arms behind his back and handcuff him. Since Gideon's escape, all high-security “patients” (Will knew he was really an inmate, a prisoner, although he'd not yet been found guilty of any crime) were cuffed at the back. And because Will had escaped custody once before, he had special treatment: more chains and cuffs around his legs and an extra chain with a chain leash was wrapped around his waist, so that even if he managed to escape his cuffs, he could be controlled. He knew, through routine, that another guard stood just outside his cell door, baton in hand, waiting to beat him into submission if he caused trouble.

But Will never caused trouble any more. Those days were behind him. Alana had asked him to be on his best behavior so that she could try to get him out of the maximum security ward. Not that it was likely to work, he knew, but he was willing to do whatever she asked him to. She wanted it so much, and he would do anything he could to please her. It was all he had left to do. 

The guards walked him down the hallway, past the cells of the other prisoners who screamed obscenities at him – somehow, they had found out he was a cop although they were never allowed to speak to one another directly – out the door, and made a right towards the back of the hospital, towards the exercise yard.

Will admired the vocabulary they used here. He was a patient, not an inmate or prisoner. This was a hospital, not a prison. He was going to the exercise yard, but not to exercise, and not in a yard. The words they used made this place seem like something other than what it was. It was a prison, and Will was never in the mood to pretend it was not, even when Chilton corrected him. 

At the door to the ironically-named exercise yard, he was handed off to the squirrely orderly known as Shorty. Will knew he had a real name, but had never asked him because Shorty wasn't interested in small talk. Under the gaze of the guards with their bared batons, Will was unchained and left only with the cuffs on his wrists. Even now, it would be useless to run: he was deep inside the prison, and would be caught and likely shot if he tried to run away. 

Shorty gripped his arm and took him outside. A burst of chilly air hit Will, and he shivered. When had it gotten so cold? “Can I have a jacket, please?” he asked, through chattering teeth. 

“Move around and you won't be cold,” Shorty snapped.

Will regretted Barney wasn't here today; Barney would have allowed him a jacket. Barney was the only orderly who treated him with any sort of kindness. Even the nurses were dispassionate; they barely looked at him. He thought, often, of how he had had so much trouble making eye contact with people, about how much he had avoided touch and human interaction. It wasn't until he was deprived of the choice that he realized how much he'd squandered it. 

Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane had taught him many lessons. 

Shorty led him across the concrete yard used by the high-security prisoners. There were thick concrete walls around it, topped by layers of barbed wire. He could not see anything green. He had not seen anything green in a long time. 

One of the gates to a fenced-in cage was open. Shorty led Will inside, leaving him off just outside the gate and backing out as it closed in front of him, remotely locked so that Will couldn't escape. He was used to the routine and performed it automatically. He backed towards the gate so that Shorty could remove his handcuffs and leave Will to exercise.

He used to at least try: he'd walk laps around the cage for the hour. Some of the prisoners did push-ups or pull-ups if they were tall enough to reach the top of the cage. Will wasn't. After a few weeks, he'd realized trying to exercise in here was pretty much pointless. 

He walked to the back of the cage, keeping his back to Shorty and the prison buildings. There was a stretch of blank concrete wall in front of him. He'd go fishing today, he decided. He calmed and centered himself, and started going back, back, back, the pendulum swinging all the way. He'd learned how to hypnotize himself as a child, when he'd developed an obsession with magicians. He hadn't known then how often he would use it, how often it would be necessary. 

He started at his back door in Wolf Trap. Ike and Duke were with him, and the weather was warm. He had his gear, the right lures. He started walking, knowing every step, remembering the smell of the air and the warm sun and the small noises of the dogs who walked beside him. Before long, the chill of the air and the blank concrete were forgotten. 

He fished happily until the sound of Shorty's hand knocking on the gate and his shout of, “Time's up, Graham,” snapped him out of it. Will looked down at his empty hands and felt the sting of the cold on his face once more. What little happiness the memories he'd explored had given him ebbed away. Silently, he walked back to the gate and turned around, extending his wrists so that he could be cuffed again. 

It was warm inside the prison. He stood, still and silent, while the chains were wrapped around him again. He walked obediently back to his cell, stood facing the wall while he was unchained and uncuffed, and placed his hands on the wall as soon as he was able. The guard patted him down again and then retreated. The cell door closed behind him with an echoing metal clang. It had once set Will's teeth on edge. Not anymore. 

Yesterday, Chilton had come down to the maximum security ward – Will always knew when he was on the ward because things went quiet. He heard footsteps echoing down the hall, until they stopped in front of Will's cell. Will finally looked up, and there was Chilton, accompanied by Dr. Lecter. Both of them grabbed metal folding chairs and sat in front of the bars, as if Will was an animal in a zoo. 

Dr. Lecter smiled at him. “Have something to eat, Will,” he said. “I brought you some food.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a covered dish. He uncovered it, and inside were scrambled eggs and vegetables, just like the first meal they had shared, ages ago in a dark hotel room in Minnesota, when Will had been allowed to wear his own clothes and carry a gun and a badge. 

Dr. Lecter held the dish out to him, as if Will was a dog. Will looked at the dish of eggs and felt a surge of hate and anger rise up within his chest. _How dare he come here,_ Will thought, _offering food to me as if I was an animal and as if he was a decent person, as if I've forgotten what he did to Abigail, to Georgia, to those other girls?_

“Are you expecting me to do a trick, Dr. Lecter?” Will said evenly, fighting to control his voice and expression. Dr. Lecter would not get the satisfaction of knowing Will was angry.

“Will, don't be rude,” Chilton chided him. 

“No, no,” Dr. Lecter said, laying a hand on Chilton's arm. “Will is right. I've treated him with indignity.” Dr. Lecter placed the dish in the sally port used to put meals and other items into Will's cell. He slid it inside. 

“I'm not hungry,” Will said, not even glancing at the food. He really wanted to smash the dish against the wall, hoping some of it would land on Dr. Lecter's smirking face or his ludicrous silk plaid suit, but that would upset Alana. That was the only thing that kept him from doing it, really; it wasn't like there was anything in his cell that Chilton could have taken away, which was the usual punishment when a patient misbehaved. That, and a shot of Thorazine in the ass. 

“Come on, Will,” Chilton chided him. “I know what they serve you. You must be hungry.” 

It was true – Will hadn't had a meal that wasn't cold or tepid since he'd been brought here. Breakfast was almost always cold oatmeal and warm juice; on a holiday, they might go all out and serve a cold scrambled egg and a single slice of toast. Lunch was tepid vegetable soup, the vegetables so overcooked that they were mash under the slightest pressure from the spoon, and plain bread with margarine. Dinner was a cheap, gummy, nearly unrecognizable meat patty, cold mashed potatoes, and more overcooked vegetables. Will had noticed a lot of blood in his gums when he brushed his teeth – he had a vitamin deficiency. No hope to cure it here. 

“I'm fine, thank you,” Will said, still fighting to keep his voice even. 

Dr. Lecter pulled the sally port back out and offered the dish to Dr. Chilton, who began to eat. Chilton grunted in approval. “Delicious,” he said. “You really don't know what you're missing, Will.” 

_Fuck you,_ Will thought toward him. _And fuck Dr. Lecter, and fuck his bribes. I know exactly why you're here._

Chilton, with Dr. Lecter often in tow, had been trying to get Will to confess to the copycat murders for months. He'd employed nearly every tactic in his arsenal, Will knew, both because of his own education and because Chilton was pitifully easy to read. The food Will had been offered was designed to build trust and comfort. Will was a captive, and they were trying to force bonding.

Will wasn't going to play their games. Alana had urged him to be cooperative, but there were still things he wasn't willing to do, even for her. He would sit here and listen to them. He might even talk to them a little. But he would never admit to crimes he didn't commit, especially in front of the man he knew had committed them. 

“Now, Will,” Chilton said, still chewing. He swallowed before continuing. “Dr. Lecter has graciously taken time out of his busy schedule today to come here today to assist me.” 

“He's not busy today,” Will said evenly. “It's Friday. He doesn't see patients on Fridays.” 

Chilton went silent. 

“And he's not assisting _you,_ Dr. Chilton, whatever you might think otherwise.” Will looked straight into Dr. Lecter's cold brown eyes. Dr. Lecter looked back, his face mild as soap yet hard and unyielding as marble. 

Chilton was at least smart enough to grasp the implication in Will's words. “Graham,” he said angrily, “ _I_ am your psychiatrist. Don't contradict me.”

“I'm not contradicting you, Dr. Chilton,” Will said mildly. His anger had dissipated. “I'm merely pointing out the facts for your benefit.” Will nodded towards the dish Chilton held in his hand. “You'd better finish those eggs before they get cold.” 

Chilton bristled. Will knew that nothing got under his skin more than losing a power play to a patient. Chilton craved power and fame. That was why he was in charge of running a place like this – he had no real interest in helping his patients, only controlling them and using them. 

Dr. Lecter, sensing that Chilton was losing control of the situation, began to speak. “Will,” he said. “Have you recovered any memories of the murders?” 

“There are no memories to recover, Dr. Lecter,” Will said, still keeping his voice mild and even. “I didn't commit them.” _As you well know,_ he thought silently. 

“There are treatments that can help you recover those memories,” Dr. Lecter said. They had had this conversation so many times before that Will could point out its turns. 

“I have no interest in those treatments. And you cannot perform those treatments on me without my consent. Not if either of you would like to keep your licenses.” Will looked at Chilton, who apparently had lost his zeal for Dr. Lecter's scrambled eggs. “How's Dr. Gideon's lawsuit going, by the way?” Will asked. “I'd hate to lose you as my psychiatrist. You've been very helpful.” 

A look of disgust crossed Chilton's face. Will knew he was barely controlling his rage, but there was very little Chilton could do to him. It was enjoyable to play with him and know he had nothing to lose. 

Dr. Lecter, again, took over since Chilton was unable to control himself. “We can help you,” he said. “We want to help you.”

“Your promise of help rests on me admitting I killed five people.” 

“You _did_ kill them, Will. Their DNA was found in your home. If you didn't kill them, how did it get there?” 

Will wanted to laugh. _You know very well how it got there,_ he thought. He desperately wanted to say it aloud. “I haven't been found guilty of any crime, Dr. Lecter. You have no right to say I _did_ anything for sure.” He paused. “You'll want to consult Jack Crawford for the answer to that question,” Will said. “I answered it months ago.” 

“You said you believed someone had planted it.”

“I don't _believe_ someone planted it,” Will said, looking directly into Dr. Lecter's eyes. “I _know_ someone did. And I know who did it.” 

“Tell us who it is,” Chilton said.

“Jack Crawford knows,” Will said, turning to him again. “All you have to do is ask him.” 

“Jack Crawford and I agree that this is a paranoid delusion,” Dr. Lecter said to Dr. Chilton. 

“Jack Crawford knows very little about psychology,” Will said. “He is a man who relies on instinct, not evidence.”

“A man not unlike yourself,” Dr. Lecter countered.

“I rely on both,” Will said. “You know me too well to say otherwise, Dr. Lecter.” 

Will turned to Chilton, who doubtlessly was jealous of Dr. Lecter's takeover of the session. He would be eager to wrest back control, to prove his superiority. He did not surprise Will. “Graham,” he said. “I can clearly see you have no interest in helping yourself.”

“On the contrary, Doctor,” Will said. “I am very interested in helping myself. It's just that you and Dr. Lecter are both completely useless at helping me.” 

Chilton looked angry – he opened his mouth to say something else, but Dr. Lecter put up a hand to stop him. “Will,” he said, “You must realize the truth about your situation before you can progress. We cannot help you if you continue to be in denial.” 

Will sighed. Dr. Lecter was up to his old tricks. Will wasn't going to fall for them. “I'm not interested in talking any more,” he said. 

“I decide when our session is over, not you,” Chilton said petulantly. 

Will shrugged. “Then I'll sit here silently, all day if you want me to. I can handle it. Can you?” 

Dr. Chilton and Dr. Lecter continued to try to get him to talk, but Will maintained his silence. He found that something warm had settled into his chest at the game – something it took him a while to recognize as peace. He was amazed he could feel peace, especially while the man who put him here sat in front of him, bold as brass, under the guise of helping him make a false confession. But Will knew, finally, that Dr. Lecter no longer had power over him. He could no longer manipulate him, because Will could see the truth of him. 

_I see you now,_ Will thought as he looked Dr. Lecter in the eye. _And I see you always, until the day I die._

Eventually, both Dr. Chilton and Dr. Lecter had left. Will maintained his silence for the rest of the day, even after they had gone. Today's words had been the first he'd spoken since then.

His thoughts travelled next to Alana, as they often did. He had chosen not to openly antagonize Dr. Lecter for her sake. Dr. Lecter already knew Will was attached to her, and if he perceived at all that Alana might be a threat to whatever plans he held for Will, or if Alana believed Will over him, then she would be in grave danger. Will would do anything – _anything_ – to protect her, even hide the truth from her. Let her think he was delusional, if it protected her, if it helped her not to realize the truth about her mentor and friend. 

He remembered when Alana had come to see him in the hospital in Minnesota, before he'd been brought here. He had been surprised to see her; he hadn't thought he would ever see her again. He had had no visitors since Jack, and that had been weeks before. 

Even though he was weak and barely able to walk across the room, he had been restrained to the bed by his wrists and ankles. He couldn't even scratch an itch, and he was uncomfortable laying on his back for so long. The nurses, accompanied by orderlies and police, came in every few hours to take him to the bathroom or to turn him or make sure he was fed or medicated, but otherwise, he was left alone. He was already human scum. 

He had fallen asleep, more from boredom than exhaustion, and woke to find Alana sitting at his bedside. He remembered the last time he had woken up to Alana at his bedside – he had been in a triage room in an ER, and he had been packed in ice to bring down his fever. There had been an oxygen mask on his face, and he struggled to see her over it. She bent over him and smiled. Distantly, he heard her voice, placating him, telling him where he was and that he would be all right, that they were looking for the source of his fever, but all he could think was that she looked like an angel. He tried to tell her, but he was too weak, and his eyes closed. 

She still looked like an angel, but there was no kind smile on her face this time, no soothing words. Her face wasn't hard, exactly, but it had lost its softness towards him. Will mourned for the loss. 

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hi,” he said back. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked. He wasn't sure how to answer her. _I'm restrained in my hospital bed, I've been arrested on five counts of murder, and I also just got over a case of encephalitis that almost fried my brain in my skull. Other than that, I'm great. How about you?_

He finally settled on a wordless shrug – or, at least, the closest he could get to one with his wrists in restraints.

“The neurologist said he doesn't think you have brain damage,” she continued quietly. “You'll still need to be routinely tested and monitored for a while, though.” 

He only nodded. He wanted to be happy to see her, but he wasn't at all. He felt shame, mostly, and not a small amount of anger at her, though he knew it was unwarranted. He found it was easier to look away from her. 

Silence settled between them. He didn't trust himself to look back at her. “Will?” she asked. There was a wavering quality to her voice – she was upset, too. 

He looked at her. 

“I'm sorry,” she told him.

“For what?” he asked. 

She sighed. “For setting you up. I wanted you to be caught, but it was because I wanted you to get medical care. I knew you were sick and it was affecting your thinking.” 

He nodded again. He knew why she had done it, but it didn't sting any less. He started to wish she would leave, because her presence was causing him to lose control of the emotions he'd held carefully in check for weeks. 

“I was afraid,” she continued, barely above a whisper. “I was afraid of what they would do to you if they caught you.” 

“Or what I would do to someone else,” he said bitterly, thinking of Dr. Lecter in the Hobbs family's kitchen. 

“Yes,” she replied. He looked away from her again. “Will --” he heard her say. Pleadingly. Imploringly. 

“Can we talk about something else, please?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even. It was just too painful to see the look on her face, to feel the ache in his chest. 

“Okay,” she said gently. “We'll talk about whatever you want.” 

But he had already told her what he most wanted to say – that he wasn't a killer – and she hadn't believed him. He'd made the decision not to tell her any more, in order to protect her. Now that he knew the truth about Dr. Lecter, he couldn't risk her finding out too much. 

“Jack told me what you said about Hannibal,” she said, her voice still quiet and gentle, as if she were calming a frightened dog. 

“Are you going to tell me I'm delusional?” he asked, unable to control the anger in his voice. “Everyone else has.” 

“I don't think I'm in a position to make that judgment yet,” she said. Will was aware she was dodging the question. 

She stayed a little longer. Will still couldn't look at her. He looked everywhere but at her – it had been so easy, once, to look at her face. She was one of the few people who had never made him feel strange or self-conscious. But now all that had changed. 

Finally, Alana rose with promises that she would see him soon, when he returned to Baltimore to await his indictment and, likely, his trial. She told him that she would be evaluating his mental competency. Will had just nodded, with his face still turned away from her. Then she had done something he had not expected: she grasped one of his hands and squeezed it. 

The action forced him to look at her. He was dimly aware he was trembling. 

“I'm still your friend, Will,” she said. “Nothing that's happened will change that.” 

He looked up at her – her lovely face, her sad eyes. He loved her and she believed he was a killer, that he was crazy. What kind of friend would she be to him?

 _She's the only friend you've got left,_ he told himself. _For whatever it's worth._

“Thank you,” he'd said, his voice thick. He was going to lose it if she didn't leave soon. 

She squeezed his hand again, then let go. Her touch had left his hand warm. He watched her as she gathered her jacket and purse and left. He listened to the sound of her heels as they clicked away on the linoleum floor. 

He felt empty when she left, an emptiness that had pursued him here, and dissipated only slightly when she came for her weekly visit. 

He was tired of emptiness. 

After he had recovered enough to travel, he'd been transported here, under heavy guard. They had reached Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane very early in the morning; the sun wasn't out. He couldn't see the trees. He hadn't seen a tree since then. 

He often saw oaks in his dreams – the twisted Southern oaks he'd known as a child, tall and leafy, with the sun sparkling through their branches. Sometimes, when things had been bad with his dad, he'd dream he could climb high enough to fly away.

There were no oaks here to climb, except those in his memories. 

At seven, dinner arrived, along with his evening meds. He thought tonight's meat patty might have been pork, but he could never be sure. He took a few bites, but the food was icy cold and mealy in his mouth, so he gave up. 

Half an hour later, Shorty came to collect his tray. “You're not eating again?” he asked when he saw that most of the food was still on it.

“I'm not hungry,” Will said. It was true enough. 

“Dr. Chilton will hear about this soon,” Shorty said, putting the tray on top of the pile in his arms.

“That's fine,” Will said. Apathy had taken over. What was the worst that Chilton could do to him? He no longer feared death. 

Soon afterward, the lights were dimmed and the TV went on. For some reason, they usually showed religious programming – probably an order from Chilton – but the guards and orderlies hated it, and so it was only put on later at night. Dimly, Will heard the tinny laugh tracks of sitcoms along with the snickers of the guards and orderlies and the occasional comment from an inmate. The child rapist in the cell next to him was masturbating. 

Will had no interest in watching TV, so he lay down on his cot and closed his eyes. The night would be long. 

As the pendulum swung, he pictured one person, said one name.

_Alana. Alana. Alana._

He asked for her most nights: though he could go anywhere, most places weren't safe. He'd discovered that through digging. But no darkness ever accompanied her. It could never penetrate the quiet, safe places in his mind where Alana dwelt. 

He went many places with her. He was with her when she taught at the Academy, or when she worked with her students at Georgetown. Sometimes he went on errands with her. His favorite times, though, were when she was at home, with the dogs. She was fire and light in the evenings, a warm star in a safe harbor. 

She was at his home in Wolf Trap tonight, with the dogs around her. She was barefoot and wore a white dress. She looked like Artemis, he thought, like Diana, the huntress with her dogs. She smiled warmly at him and greeted him with a kiss. The Alana in his mind was always willing to kiss him. 

Night had fallen. “Come out with me?” he asked her. He always asked her, whenever she was here. 

“Of course,” she said. She always accepted. 

They walked together through the grass in the flat fields, her hand in his. The dogs ran beside them. The night was warm and the fireflies had come out to play in the twilight. 

He led her carefully to the perfect spot, far away from the house. The lights were on: golden light filtered through the windows. “Do you see it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It's beautiful.” 

He was aware that this Alana wasn't the real one, but a copy of her, a projection. But she was his only comfort. 

She laid her head on his shoulder. He could smell the perfume she always wore, the warm smell he associated with her. He knew little about women's perfumes, but if he ever encountered it again, he would know it. 

After a while, they went back inside. Sometimes, when she was here in Wolf Trap, they made love. Tonight, they lay together in his bed and she lay her legs over his and he stroked them, reveling in her soft skin. Here in Wolf Trap, she knew he was innocent. They spoke little, but they didn't need to speak, because she knew him and he knew her and that was all he needed, all that made him content. 

He pulled out his old, battered book of poetry from college. It had accompanied him for years, through a succession of shitty apartments until it rested on a shelf in his little white house. There were many notes in it, but there were several poems he had marked as favorites, including one for her. It was a poem he thought of often when he saw her. Alana lay next to him and he read to her: 

_She walks in beauty, like the night_  
 _Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_  
 _And all that's best of dark and bright_  
 _Meet in her aspect and her eyes:_  
 _Thus mellow'd to that tender light_  
 _Which heaven to gaudy day denies._

_One shade the more, one ray the less,_  
 _Had half impaired the nameless grace_  
 _Which waves in every raven tress,_  
 _Or softly lightens o'er her face;_  
 _Where thoughts serenely sweet express_  
 _How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._

_And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,_  
 _So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_  
 _The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_  
 _But tell of days in goodness spent,_  
 _A mind at peace with all below,_  
 _A heart whose love is innocent!_

Alana smiled at the end and applauded. He ran his fingers through her hair, and she sighed. 

He could tell this Alana things he couldn't tell the real Alana, things that would make the real Alana worry about him. Dream Alana never worried. She only understood, and her compassion was infinite. 

“I think I'll die soon,” he said. “I just have to find a way to do it.” 

Dream Alana nodded. She didn't try to talk him out of it.

“Will you be here when I die?” he asked her. 

“I don't know,” she said quietly, sadly. 

“I'll wait for you,” he said. He lay his head down next to hers. “Time doesn't exist here,” he whispered to her. “So you will never be old.” 

“What's wrong with being old?” she asked, laughing.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.” He stroked her hair again, imagined it turning white, her blue eyes shining keen and clear under a crown of white hair. He would only know her then when she came to Wolf Trap to stay at last, if she wanted to, and if this place existed at all. 

He felt very tired all of a sudden, and closed his eyes. He wasn't aware he had fallen asleep until he woke up to a darkened hallway and religious programming on the television. The screamer hadn't started yet, but Will knew he would soon. 

Will was falling asleep more often during his hypnotic states. Part of it, he knew, was boredom, part of it was likely malnutrition, and another part was the medication Chilton had assigned him. He'd had so little energy for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like to feel healthy. 

He closed his eyes again. There was no point in staying awake. He'd rather dream than think, even if those dreams were unpleasant. 

There was another pill in the pile in his paper cup in the morning, served with his cold oatmeal and warm juice. He didn't know what it was. Whenever he had asked, he'd gotten a “Take what you're given and shut the fuck up, Graham,” from Shorty or one of the other orderlies. Barney wasn't so rude in his answers, but he never knew what the pills were. Eventually, Will had stopped questioning. Today, he swallowed each pill while Shorty watched him, then opened his mouth wide, stuck out his tongue, and then lifted it to the roof of his mouth to show Shorty he wasn't hiding anything, as he'd been taught. 

Will was left to his own devices for a few hours after breakfast. He noticed he felt more tired than usual – it was probably the new med. He usually listened to the morning talk show that Barney was fond of putting on when he was on duty, or listening to the guards' and orderlies' chatter, trying to determine the day or date or what was going on in the news. No one discussed anything serious; there was a lot of gossip about inmates, a lot of shit-talking about Chilton, whom no one respected, and sometimes talk about women. Will was glad when he started meeting Alana in private, because the guards and orderlies said things about her body that turned his stomach. Had he been on the outside, he would have punched each and every one of them for disrespecting her. 

But he wasn't on the outside any more, and if he wanted to keep his bones whole, he had to obey and be silent. 

“Morning, Mr. Graham,” Barney said, knocking on the bars of his cell. 

“Hi, Barney,” Will said, glad to see him. “Did you just get here?”

“Yeah,” Barney said. “I started at eight.” He cocked his head to the side. “You feeling okay? It seems like you're out of it.”

“I got a new med this morning,” Will said. “It's making me tired, I think.” 

“You're slurring your words, too,” Barney said. 

“Didn't notice,” Will replied. 

“It's time for your shower,” Barney said. 

Will nodded. He'd learned long ago that a daily shower was a rule, not an option; for him, the thirty minutes it took to be removed from his cell, taken to the shower, and then brought back to his cell wasn't worth the effort, but it was what was done here at Baltimore State Hospital, and there was no choice. 

Two guards came up behind Barney and, as always, Will walked to the opposite side of his cell and laid his hands on the wall. He was frisked, cuffed around his wrists and ankles, and then leashed. Will was glad Barney was here to supervise him, at least; Barney was polite and respectful to him, and actually was willing to talk. 

“How's school?” Will asked as they walked down the hall together, Barney clutching his bicep. He knew Barney was a nursing student at the community college. 

“Going okay, Mr. Graham,” Barney replied. “Maybe later, if you're feeling okay, you could help me with my homework?” 

“I'd be glad to,” Will said. He was sincere – not only did it give him something to do, but it was his way of repaying Barney's kindness. 

“I heard Shorty left you out in the yard yesterday without a jacket,” Barney said quietly. 

Will nodded. One could never be sure which guard was friends with which orderly, so he was always careful not to gossip. 

“He's a fuckin' idiot, I swear to God,” Barney said. 

“Shorty'll hear you said that,” one of the guards said, chuckling. 

“Tell him,” Barney said, turning halfway around to face him. “I'll lay his ass flat. Then I'll leave him outside in forty-degree temperatures for an hour with no jacket, see how he likes it.” 

Will only shrugged. If pneumonia killed him, it would be no loss. Sometimes it was regarded as a disease of mercy, since it often killed those who were already sick and weak. He understood, dimly, why Barney was so upset – Barney was very protective of him, and everyone in the ward knew it. Will was kind to Barney and didn't call him a faggot because he wanted to be a nurse. The nastier guards and orderlies said, laughing, that Barney had a crush on Will – never while Barney was around, of course, because Barney was former military. But Will knew that wasn't the case, and even if it was, he wouldn't have minded much. He didn't really care why Barney was kind to him, only that he was. A little kindness went a long way in a place like this. 

They reached the shower area. Will was unchained and the cuffs around his legs were removed, leaving him in just the handcuffs. The guards opened a heavy metal door that led to the shower, and Will walked inside, leaning in to a hole in the door where his handcuffs were removed. Barney handed him a tiny bar of soap and a thin towel through the hole in the door, which was then closed. It would be easy to pretend that there was privacy here, but Will knew there wasn't. Part of Barney's job was to time Will's shower and watch him to make sure he didn't injure himself, intentionally or unintentionally, in the stall. 

Will stripped off his shoes, socks, uniform, and underwear and then turned on the water, which was lukewarm. There had been a lice outbreak over the summer – or, at least Will had thought it was summer, since it had been warm in the yard – and one day, Barney had given him a razor blade along with the soap and towel and ordered him to shave off all the hair on his body, including his pubic hair. That was the only day Will had been allowed to shower for longer than ten minutes. He'd tried to savor it, but it was impossible while Barney was watching him shave his testicles.

After his shower, he'd been taken to a conference room upstairs and had his head shaved. He remembered how Alana had paled when she first saw him afterward, and then tried to steel her face. “Lice,” he'd told her. “Everyone in the ward was shaved.” 

“Did you have it?” she asked.

“I don't think so.” He shrugged. “They never checked, anyway.” He felt oddly vulnerable without his hair. He wanted his glasses, but he wasn't allowed to take them out of his cell. 

Alana looked sad. She was staring at him. He looked away, not wanting to meet her gaze. 

Then, to his surprise, she laughed. He turned toward her. “I can't stop staring at your ears,” she said. “I had no idea they were so big.” 

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically. “I have to have my head shaved, and now you're making fun of my ears.” 

She was giggling. “I'm sorry, your ears are okay...there's nothing wrong with them. It's just –”

“I know what you're referring to,” he said. “It happened all the time in the schoolyard.” In spite of himself, he chuckled. It felt good to laugh with her. Alana had to make it funny, because it was too sad otherwise. 

In the following months, Will's hair had grown back a little. The incident had let her open up a bit more to him, and he to her. Seeing her laugh had eased the pervasive ache in his chest, and he made more of an effort to be lighter with her in hope of seeing her smile again, seeing the old warmth return to her face. 

After his shower, Barney and the two guards returned him to his cell. Because Will's life was now governed by routine, he also knew that Father Stephen, the hospital's chaplain, would be visiting soon. He always visited Will on Sundays and sat with him for a regrettably short half hour – he had other patients that he visited, but like Barney, he was one of the few people who treated Will like a human being, and so Will looked forward to his visits. Will had told him early on that he wasn't much of a believer, but Father Stephen didn't seem to mind. Sometimes they talked, and sometimes, if Will wasn't in the mood to talk, Father Stephen would read to him. But Father Stephen always visited him and was always kind to him, and to Will, that made all the difference. 

When Will heard the priest's footsteps, he sat on the floor close to the bars, his legs crossed underneath him. Father Stephen took the folding chair reserved for visitors. He was far enough away from Will's cell so that the guards wouldn't correct him, but closer to Will than he should have been, especially since Will was sitting so close to the bars. His actions said that he trusted Will not to hurt him – significant because Will was treated like a barely contained wild animal nearly all of the time. 

“How are you, Will?” Father Stephen asked. Will shook his head. “Would you like to talk today?” Will shook his head again. 

“I'll read to you, then,” he said. He opened his dogeared Bible to a passage he seemed to have specially marked. He began to read. “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.” 

It was 1 Corinthians 13. Will knew the passage well. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Father Stephen's calm voice. The pendulum swung, back, back, back...he didn't know where it would take him today, but he let it take him. 

Father Stephen's calm voice bled into his consciousness. “And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.” 

The associations came quickly. Will let them come. There was his father, shirtless and smoking a cigarette, on a boat dock someplace far away and years ago, where the sun was warm and the water calm. There was his father, sitting in a recliner, a half-full bottle of whiskey on the TV tray next to him. He had passed out drunk. Will put a blanket over him and went to sleep on the sofa, the television blaring in the background. 

“Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy –” 

There was Alana, smiling at him in Wolf Trap, her face bathed in golden light. _You're not broken,_ she'd said. _But I am, Alana,_ he thought. _At last, I am._

“Love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil –” 

There was Alana, sitting across from him in a conference room upstairs. He was restrained to the chair and he would give anything – not that he had anything left to give – for one touch from her. She used to touch him, without hesitation. Now she never did. He knew the guards wouldn't let her, but did she even want to anymore? Was there any tenderness in her heart left for him? 

“Love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” 

There was Alana, in his hospital room, sorrow weighing her face down, asking him for forgiveness. _You should be forgiving_ me, he thought. _You should be forgetting me. I have nothing left for you. I am a man without a future._

“Why are you crying, Will?” Father Stephen whispered. Will hadn't noticed how his body had contorted, how he was now gripping the bars of his prison, how he had laid his head against them and was sobbing openly. 

He looked up at Father Stephen's kind, old face, and he couldn't speak, but the words ran through his heart. _Because I am lost. Because I am angry. Because I have no hope left. Because I want to die._

“Because it hurts,” he murmured. 

Father Stephen nodded. “That's what Paul does not mention. He never speaks about how it hurts to love, about how love often causes as much sorrow as joy.” 

“Do you believe I can feel love?” Will asked. 

The priest smiled. “Of course. You are one of the few here who do, including those who walk free around us. You love, and you love more and deeply than most. God has bestowed a special gift on you, and with it comes its curse.” 

Will murmured what he had been thinking for so many days, as the weather grew cold, as each day here became more and more unbearable. “I don't feel gifted. I feel empty.” He stared down again at his empty hands, at his sparse cell. In spite of the terrible things they said about him, the guards were careful with him. They knew. 

“I want to die,” Will told the priest. 

Father Stephen did not flinch, did not change the kind expression on his face. “The Lord will take you when He is ready, son, and not a moment before. You mustn't do His work for Him.” 

Will shook his head. “I can't live like this. I don't want to. I didn't kill those people. I'm not crazy.” He laughed ironically, humorlessly. “But you probably hear that all the time.”

Father Stephen shook his head. “I don't believe it's the truth very often.”

Will was taken aback. He was so accustomed to being called delusional that it seemed impossible that someone could believe him. 

Father Stephen smiled at him. “Come, son. Let's finish.” 

To his surprise, the priest reached for Will's hand inside the bars and held it. Will grasped it back like a lifeline to a drowning man. He knew the guards or orderlies would come soon and separate them – human contact, especially kind human contact, was expressly forbidden – but for now, he would hold on. 

“Love never ends,” Father Stephen read. “But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.” Father Stephen looked at Will's face. “You understand, Will?” he asked.

Will nodded. Hannibal Lecter's face swam into his mind, unbidden. _Go away,_ he thought, but this was the way his mind worked. Will closed his eyes again, purposefully swinging the pendulum, trying to run away from the face of the devil. 

_Peace. Peace. Peace._

He was back in Wolf Trap. It was a sunny day, and his dogs were there. Ike came to him and sat on his lap, draped his head over Will's knee. Will pet his head, and peace filled his heart. 

Father Stephen was reading again. “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” 

Will was fixing a motor for a boat he didn't own. He bought them from salvage yards and fixed them to feel close to his father and his lost childhood. With every movement of his hands, he heard his father's voice, patiently training him. His father had known his son was gifted, but he was a man who never put stock in a college education. Will could hear his voice, gravelly from years of smoking: _As long as you can do this, Will, you'll never be out of work._

“For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face,” Father Stephen continued. “Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.” 

He looked up, and Hannibal Lecter was gazing in his windows, violating his sacred space. _Go away,_ Will thought again. 

_Know me,_ Dr. Lecter mouthed through the window.

 _I know you,_ Will thought towards him. _I see you. Stop tormenting me._

“Will.” Father Stephen's voice broke through. Will was suddenly aware he was trembling.

“What do you see?” the priest asked. His kind eyes were clear, caring – they wanted nothing from Will but understanding. _Like Lecter, but not,_ Will thought. There was no selfishness in Father Stephen's gaze, only compassion. 

“I see the man who put me here,” Will whispered. 

“The Devil,” Father Stephen whispered back. 

Will nodded.

“Does he frighten you?” Father Stephen asked. Will knew that the old priest wasn't patronizing him: this man believed, with every fiber of his being, that the Devil existed and that he haunted Will's mind. To Father Stephen, this was not a delusion – this was reality. Perhaps that was why he saw Will's innocence so clearly. 

“Sometimes,” Will murmured, thinking of Cassie Boyle's nude corpse on a stag's head, or Georgia Madchen's twisted, blackened remains. “He's depraved.” 

“I've seen the man,” Father Stephen said. “In Dr. Chilton's office. Handsome and well-dressed.”

Will nodded. 

“Never forget the truth of him, son,” Father Stephen whispered. 

“He is the deceiver,” Will said. His mind flashed back to hot wooden churches in the deep South, the baptismal font he'd been bathed in when he was six. He'd never believed the Devil existed, not in his childish mind and not after years of empathizing with murderers. Not until he'd seen the truth of Hannibal Lecter in Minnesota. Maybe the Devil didn't exist, but there was a man who came close, and Will had the deep misfortune of knowing him. 

“He is also called the adversary, or the slanderer, or the accuser,” the priest said. “He leads people astray with lies.” He lay a warm hand on the crown of Will's damp head. “Don't let him lead you astray.” 

“He hasn't,” Will said. “But he put me here, and I don't know how to get out.” Will lowered his eyes, thinking of Alana. “No one believes me.” 

“Remember what Paul says about love?” Father Stephen asked. “Love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” He paused. “Love rejoices in the truth. The deceiver rejoices in lies.” 

There were only two people Will loved in the world, and one of them was dead and buried in a Lafayette graveyard. But Alana was alive – she was alive, and she came to see him every week, and while she didn't believe he was entirely innocent, she at least believed he could be redeemed. She didn't believe he was a psychopath. 

“The one I love doesn't believe me,” Will said. 

“She's been blinded by the deceiver,” Father Stephen replied. “You will take the blindfold away, Will, and she will know everything, and rejoice in the truth.” 

Will didn't know how the old priest knew what he knew; they had never spoken of Alana or Dr. Lecter. But Will was a man familiar with drawing conclusions from the smallest clues. Maybe Father Stephen could do the same. 

“Say the last line for me,” the priest said. “You know it.”

Will nodded. “And now abide faith, hope, and love,” he said. “But the greatest of these is love.” 

Father Stephen smiled again. “I have prayers for you,” he said, taking a sheet of paper out of his Bible. “St. Margaret of Cortona is one of the patron saints of the mentally ill, so she is someone I invoke often when I work with patients here. But she is special to you, because we also pray to her when someone is homeless and rejected by their family, as she once was. She also helps those who have been falsely accused.” 

Will nodded. 

“We'll pray to her every week together, if you like. I'll leave this prayer with you and you can pray to her, along with St. Jude, who is your patron as well.” 

Will nodded. "Police officers and desperate causes."

Father Stephen nodded and bowed his head. Will did the same. Father Stephen invoked the two prayers, one to St. Margaret and the other to St. Jude, and handed Will the cards and prayers through the bars of his cell. “Don't be afraid to pray, Will,” he said. “It will bring peace to your heart.” 

Will nodded again, solemnly. He couldn't speak. 

Father Stephen smiled at him again and laid a hand on the crown of his head. “Will Graham, my brother in God, I think of you often, and I pray for you often.” 

“Thank you,” Will whispered. He rose and watched as the old priest folded his chair back up and left the ward to go see his other patients. He glanced down at the cards and prayers in his hand, touched by the man's kindness. 

Will walked over to his desk, where he had only a few paperback books from the hospital library and a copy of the Bible that was his to keep. He tucked the cards inside the Bible and hoped they wouldn't disappear the next time his cell was tossed. 

He was exhausted after Father Stephen's visit, and lay back down on his cot. He didn't want to sleep because he was afraid of what he would dream. He lay awake for a long time, listening to the sounds of the ward around him: the chatter and footsteps of the guards and orderlies, the voices of the prisoners who talked to no one except themselves. 

He wasn't aware he had fallen asleep again until he heard Barney knock on the bars. “I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. Graham,” he said. He had a food tray in his hands with Will's vegetable soup and bread. “It's time for lunch.” 

Will sat up and nodded, rubbing his face. “Go get your books,” he said to Barney, who smiled at him and disappeared down the hallway. 

Maybe, if Will did enough good deeds, St. Margaret and St. Jude would indeed intercede on his behalf. Maybe Father Stephen's prophecy would come true, and the blindfold would be lifted from Alana's eyes. But for right now, all Will had was Barney and his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> "She Walks in Beauty," is, of course, by Lord Byron.


End file.
